The Ring of Thrór
by eichenschild
Summary: During the Second Age, King Durin III received a mysterious Ring to keep and hold on to. Thousands of years later, the Ring finds its last bearer in the mighty Dwarven King Thráin and it once again twists the fate of the Longbeards, bringing them power and wealth beyond imagination. This time however, there is a price to pay.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

The footsteps of padded boots echoed across the meadows on the far eastern border of Lothlórien.

Rushed and snatchy footsteps, for the bearer of those iron-capped boots was staggering and zigzagging, tumbling over roots and broom. Every now and then, his clothes got caught on the low scrubland but he did not care, since his soft leather jerkin, as well as his coat and pants, were already badly torn and hanging from him in shreds. Blood covered his hands and face but it was not his own, though he wished it was.

His dark eyes roamed the grassland, searching desperately for something but before him lay nothing but the vast, dry lands of the Field of Celebrant, the long, stiff grass swaying lazily in a dull breeze that came from the South, bringing the first carriers of summer.

Pollen burst into the air and danced around his head as he rushed through a field of dandelion and glimmered in the light of the settling sun above the Misty Mountains in the far West. He saw none of that beauty. A sight he could not forget had rooted in his head, a sight that had burned itself deep into his mind and poisoned it with every living hour and haunted him. A sight, that made him flee in fright and drove him to places unknown for he did not have a home anymore.

He still saw it clear before him.

The dark gate lingered far above their heads, towering over them like a deadly foe from ancient times. As he looked up, a shudder ran down his spine and his feet suddenly felt heavy as plumb.

"This is folly, Thrór", Nár muttered under his breath, glaring up at the lingering death that awaited them at the top of the stairs.

Dimrill Dale lay quietly in his back, the distant gurgling of the waterfall crashing down into the beautifully glistening surface of the lake Mirrormere barely reached the ears of the two Dwarves, who stood at the foot of a large staircase, once carved into the stone by skilled hands.

"There is no way on this earth, that we can reclaim those Mountains by ourselves. Let us return and gather an army big enough to drive the Orcs out", he continued, looking up to his King and most trusted friend.

"Can you see it, Nár? Can you feel it? The presence of Durin still lingers in this place", Thrór replied dreamy, gazing up at the mountain. The King of Erebor had grown old, time gnawing on his face, his grey beard and the withered armour, forged from the finest metals and the glorious Mithril that still shone bright in the sunlight.

"He once walked in this valley, right where we are standing", the King seemed in a daze and Nár stepped a little closer, worried about his old companion.

"Let's go home", he said softly.

"Home?" Thrór finally turned to him, an unreadable expression on his face. "And where is that? Erebor is lost to us but this place. This place, right here, this is where we righteously belong!"

Thrór's gaze fell on the mountain again and his eyes glistened feverish.

"I am of Durin's line", he solemnly declared and Nár sighed quietly. "This is my homeland. Before us lie the Halls that Durin had built, I can no longer let Orcs savage them and linger in them, don't you understand that, my friend?"

"I do", Nár replied and once again eyed the large black gate. "I just don't think we should be here alone. Please Thrór, for the love of Mahal, let us return to our kin and gather an army. Take your son with you, your grandsons even, fight side by side with them to reclaim this once glorious kingdom, but please do not enter on your own."

"I have no choice", the great King smiled and began to climb the stairs, his heavy armour clangouring with every step he made.

Nár watched him for a while; his feet still tied firmly to the ground and he felt his knees trembling violently. "Thrór?" he quietly called out but was of course unheard. He did not dare to raise his voice, for nobody knew what really lingered in those deep chasms now. Nobody knew of the great terror that dwelled in the halls of Khazad-dûm.

After a little while, he finally plucked up the courage to follow the King. Looking back over his shoulder, Nár watched the peaceful valley below as he ascended the stairs and wished to be somewhere else entirely. Being loyal to his beloved King, he would have followed Thrór anywhere and he hadn't hesitated even for a second, when his old friend had asked him to come along on this quest, no matter how hopeless it was. But he had secretly and silently hoped, that Thrór might change his mind along the way.

He found Thrór by the gate, astonished and curious as a little child. The great East-gate to Moria stood ajar, the gap big enough for a Dwarf to squeeze through but the darkness that lingered behind it was all but inviting. A cold draft came from the depth of the Halls beyond, the scent of decay and murder carried out with it and Nár's stomach turned.

"This is a sign", Thrór muttered. "A sign by Durin himself for us to finally reclaim what is ours."

"We do not know what awaits us in there. Thrór, for the last time, please, we should not be here. Not now, not alone. Let us return", Nár tried once again, his voice already pleading.

Thrór stared into the deep, never-ending black that lurked behind the gate, mesmerized and bewitched by some dark magic, Nár was sure of it.

"I must leave you now", Thrór finally muttered and Nár stared at him, bewildered by his words. "This is my burden. My fate, my glory."

The old King smiled and when he finally looked at his companion one more time, Nár saw the madness in his eyes, the quiet sickness that had begun to befall Thrór while he had still dwelled in Erebor. A sickness of the mind, so vile and pestilent, that nobody had ever found a cure for it.

"Thrór, please! Can't you hear me anymore? I am begging you, do not enter through this gate but come back home with me! Come home for your people, your son, please!" Nár's voice trembled with fear and despair.

"Wait here for me, my old friend. I shall return to you", Thrór smiled. "But for now, farewell my dear Nár. Farewell and do not fear for me."

Nár watched in terror as his King disappeared through the gate, swallowed by the darkness behind it.

The days grew long and the nights dark and terrifying. The old Dwarf had settled at the foot of the stairs, hidden from sight and he waited. And waited, and waited. Nár never dared to make a fire for he feared the ever-watchful eyes in the dark, searching and haunting him in his sleep. He heard the whispers and screams in the night, witnessed the quiet killing and bloodshed around him, he heard them sniff and felt them scowl and he pulled his cloak tighter around his trembling body. And still he waited.

It was a mild night, when the dark East-gate opened one more time. Crickets were chirping and Mirrormere lay quiet, except for the silent splashing of the waterfall that gushed down the Dimrill Stairs. Nár startled and peeked from his hiding spot.

Up by the gate stood three Orcs. One of them was particularly large and his pale skin shone in the moonlight like millions of diamonds. The broad chests and shoulders covered a fourth creature and no matter how hard Nár tried to look, no matter how much he squeezed his eyes, he could not catch the cowering figure amidst those three abominations. A blade glistened in the white light and it wasn't long until Nár heard the tearing of flesh and veins and the scrunching of bones.

He watched bewildered and listened nauseated, not daring to make a sound or step from his hideout.

When the Orcs finally stepped aside, Nár's heart stopped beating in his chest. The familiar armour glistened red, the blue cloak and the crest of the House of Durin were stained and torn, the white beard adust and not a muscle moved in the old, broken limbs anymore.

They flung Thrór's abused and shattered body down the stairs and Nár cried out in pain, when the severed head of his beloved King toppled down behind the corpus. Nothing could have held the pure soul back anymore and Nár broke away from his lair and rushed towards the stairs, not caring if he was seen or not.

His hands trembled as he reached out for the defiled body of his King and tears were streaming down his face when he knelt beside the broken corpse, drawing white tracks on his dirt stained cheeks.

"No", he whispered under his breath, as he carefully picked up Thrór's head. He cried out once again and nearly dropped the head like he had burned himself on it. Dwarvish runes were carved deeply into the King's forehead, glistening red in the dim light. Thrór's dead eyes stared up at Nár, as he read the name that had been scored into flesh and skin.

Heavy steps ripped the old Dwarf from his daze and when he looked up, he saw the white Orc towering above him. Agitated, he pressed the head of his King against his chest and stared up at the monster.

"Take my life!" he bellowed. "Take my life but make it quick and be done with it for I will no longer feel anything anymore!"

The Orc watched him curiously, a grim smirk tugging at the corner of his pale lips.

"Your life is of no worth to me, beggar", he snarled and tossed a small purse, made from dark leather, at the Dwarf by his feet. "Take this and run. Run as quick as your feet can carry you and deliver this message to your kin. Your King is slain. Moria is mine."

Nár stared at the purse before him. He reached out for it with trembling fingers and it felt startlingly heavy when he lifted it from the ground, coins clinking inside. He carefully raised Thrór's head up to his face and pressed a tender kiss to the bleeding forehead, before he gently put the head down again, neatly beside the torn body.

As he got up to his feet, he clutched the purse close to his chest.

"Run", the white Orc growled one last time.

While his feet thundered down on the green, soft grass that covered the banks of the Silverlode, he heard their voices in his back, the yelling and shouting and the horrible orders, the pale Orc bellowed across the valley.

"Cut him up! Tear his flesh and feed it to the ravens until none is left of the great King under the Mountain!"

And he heard the cutting and slicing and he ran blinded by tears, staggering and crying beneath the silver light of the moon, wondering when Mahal had turned his back on his creation.

The purse with the coins still jingled on his belt when he dashed through the high grass of the Riddermark, running as if the terrors of that night were after him like predators, hunting him into his grave. He had passed the Limlight and before him lay the vast fields of Rohan.

A child stood on top of a narrow hill, the fluff on its upper lip tickling its skin and it pulled a face and scratched the tip of its nose. Whether it was a boy or a girl was not recognizable, for the formerly pretty clothes hung down in rags and were stained and dirty, the fuzzy-head uncombed and unbraided and its face was covered in the dust of the Mark.

When it spotted the old Dwarf in the distance, it blinked irritated and then turned on its heel.

"Mama!" the thin voice echoed across the grass. "Mama! There's someone coming!"

It stirred up a small company of travellers and they all craned their necks to spot the intruder, leaving their daily business be for the moment. All of them looked rugged and shabby and their small, sturdy frames clearly gave them away as Dwarves.

Before Nár reached the camp, fatigue and heartache overcame him and he collapsed, his body slumping into the long grass and disappearing entirely. Finally the nightmares had taken their toll on him. Finally the gruesome images that had burned themselves deep into his memory had defeated him. And the old Dwarf lay in the swaying grass of the Riddermark and his last thoughts went out to his King and Commander before everything turned black.


	2. Chapter 2

Welcome, lads and lasses, to another, hopefully long and exciting adventure. It's my second large fanfiction project and I dearly do hope that you will enjoy it as much as you enjoyed the first one already. This time though, we will travel a little earlier in time :)

One major change that is planned for this story, compared to what I did for 'Men-i-Naugrim': I will not update daily but only once a week. Main reason is that daily updates were a lot of pressure and I lack the time to keep that schedule up. BUT in return, the Chapters of 'The Ring of Thrór' will be twice as long. I hope that makes up for it. Uploads will hopefully be every Sunday unless my muses abandon me or I don't find the time.

At this point, a big Thank you! already goes out to LadyDunla for the first review to this story. As usual, I do love feedback and reviews and follows and whatnot ;) Enjoy the Chapter!

* * *

Chapter I

The Limlight lazily gushed through the tall grass, it's banks covered with pebbles and sand. To the far West, the treetops of Fangorn swayed in the mild spring breeze and the morning sun slowly warmed the dry earth and lured all kinds of small animals from their lairs. On a particularly large stone by the river, a lizard had gotten comfortable, enjoying the first warm sunrays of the day. It stirred and scurried off when footsteps sounded dull across the banks. Leather boots crunched on the pebbles and a heavy basket was dropped on the shore. More footsteps approached and the smell of soap and fabric filled the air.

"Alright lasses, let's get those rags clean again! We don't want our men smelling of Orcs now, do we?" a clear, beautiful voice echoed across the banks.

It belonged to a young Dwarven woman, merely thirty years old, thus almost still a child and fresh and mesmerizing as the spring. She wore her black hair in a long, artistically entwined braid that reached down to heir hips and the black fluff that covered her jawbones was neatly trimmed and combed. She tucked up the sleeves of her white blouse and bound an apron around her curvy waist, digging her hands deep into the basket by her feet.

Busy fingers drenched fabric and tatter in the clear waters of the Limlight, scrubbed them up with soap again and again until the white foam had turned black and then cleaned it off in the flowing waters once again. There was a lively chatter amongst the women, they joked and laughed and sang merry songs of old.

"Day in and day out", an old woman muttered under her breath, as she drowned shirts and jerkins in the flowing stream. "The same routine, day in and day out."

"What? Am I hearing you complain?" the girl smiled, her arms dipped into the cold water up to her elbows but she did not flinch or cry while the frostiness of the Limlight pricked at her tanned skin with millions of little pincers. "Shouldn't you be used to this, having a husband and five sons?"

"You just wait, my little princess. You just wait", the old woman mumbled. "One day you will have a husband and children of your own, Dís and then I want to see you smile again."

The girl laughed wholeheartedly and the merry sound filled the hearts of the women around her. Their song grew even more cheerful and it was carried off with the wind and swayed to the camps that lay scattered across the northern border of the Riddermark.

Smoke rose high in the air from countless campfires. The Mark was buzzing with the small, sturdy frames of Dwarves as they all bustled about. They were too many to be counted, young and old, men and women, warriors, merchants, miners, toymakers, forgers, tailors, beggars and carousers. Children ran amongst the camps, yelling and shouting, crying and singing whilst the old ones went about their daily business, creating and crafting. The scent of stew and bannock lingered above the grassland, mixed with sweet pipe weed and glowing coal and hot and strong grog boiled in black iron kettles above the fires.

Wooden carts were loaded to the brim with fine goods, whittled from wood, braided with the long, green grass of the Mark or carved from rock and stone. Beautiful dresses made from linen and velvet, thick leather jerkins and long coats, garnished with golden embroidery and mighty collars made from the finest fur. Caskets with glorious jewels were stacked upon another, the diamonds glistening in the early morning sun.

There was a lively chatter amongst the Dwarves, whilst they pondered about prices and the quality of their makings and bade each other farewell and wished a wonderful day. Fluffy Highland Cattle was yoked to the carts, one ox on each and their breath puffed in small clouds before their nostrils in the chilly air of the morning.

"Wait!" a voice yelled across the camp.

Two Dwarves stood by one of the carts; one older than the other and their navy blue cloaks gave them away as royalty or members of a line of fierce warriors. They were in fact brothers, though one might not have guessed, for one of them, the older one, was rather small and chubby, the first light streaks of grey already weaved into his thick, auburn beard, though his eyes gleamed and watched heedful. The other one was large and bulky, the dark beard untrimmed and his wiry mane stood from his head in a Mohawk. The back of his right hand was covered in black tattoos and he looked grim, the blue eyes glistening underneath thick brows. He had just put the reins on a particularly big ox, a sturdy animal that could barely see anything, for it's eyes were covered by a thick fringe of light, matted fur, when the voice echoed behind them.

Both brothers turned around to find a young lad running towards them. He was only a few years younger than them but still looked like a child amongst the Dwarves, for merely a black, braided moustache and a goatee grew on his tanned face and his cheeks and nose were covered in the freckles of youth.

When he arrived at the cart, he looked around, panting heavily and then suddenly dropped his shoulders as disappointment spread across his gentle, young features.

"I thought he was gonna go with you", he exclaimed, still panting a little. "Didn't he say he was gonna go with you last night, Dwalin?"

The bulky Dwarf scratched the back of his head and dust and dirt trickled down onto the thick fur collar of his jerkin. "He did", he replied, his voice dark as thunder, rolling from the depth of his massive body. "But when we came to check on him this morning, he was already gone. Took his hammer and everything."

"He went alone?" the youngster asked, his eyes big as saucers.

"Suppose he needed a little time to think", Dwalin shrugged. "'Tis been four days now, he still quite hasn't got is head around it. Don't ya worry 'bout him. He'll by travelling at the banks of the Anduin, he's gonna find his way."

"Did your father speak to anyone?" Dwalin's older brother Balin quietly asked, concern drawn on his friendly features.

"Not a word", the young Dwarf sighed. "He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, he doesn't speak. He just sits there all day, staring at this map. I don't know what to make of it anymore."

"He will come around, don't worry laddie", the older Dwarf smiled, patting the youngster on the back. "Come on then, we'll take you along. If we hurry, we might reach the Eastfold by sunrise tomorrow."

The boy smiled and nodded, climbing swiftly on the cart and made himself comfortable on a sack of linen cloaks. Dwalin settled down on the wooden frame, the reins of the ox in his large hands while Balin seated himself on a box filled with clay jars full of the finest Dwarvish ale. The cart smelled of herbs and spices and the prickly scent of alcohol and the youngster peered at the boxes and flasks, wondering if they might take a sip every now and then.

They set off in the early hours of the morning, a small caravan of carts and wheelbarrows and some Dwarves carried their goods in large sacks on their backs and wandered on foot.

The cart of the young Dwarves scuttled across the uneven ground of the Riddermark, promising a bumpy ride. The flasks and bottles and jars clattered silently and the stout ox snorted every now and then, as he ploughed his way through the tall grass. The sun rose higher above the Misty Mountains and the air became warmer and warmer, the further the day commenced. The youngster shrugged the chill of the morning off his shoulders and gazed at the glistening waters of the Anduin to their left as they travelled south towards the old city of Aldburg.

The Men of Rohan had welcomed them when they arrived months ago, after travelling across Dunland for so many years. The Rohirrim offered them trade and shelter and the Dwarves had quickly settled in the endless seas of grass. They had begun to craft and forge again and every now and then, they ventured out into the larger cities of the South to sell their goods and exchange them for everything they needed on a daily basis. Shortly after their arrival, their old King Thrór himself had travelled to Edoras to pledge his allegiance to Fréaláf Hildeson and his son Brytta. The old King of Rohan had invited the exiled Dwarves to linger in his lands for as long as they pleased but Thrór, naturally wary of the big folks, had forbidden his kin to travel to Edoras since that day, for he did not want to cause an upheaval or stir any bad feelings amongst the royal horselords, caused by ill-mannered and noisy Dwarves.

Now Thrór wasn't amongst them anymore. Only four days before the young Dwarf had climbed on the cart with Balin and Dwalin, Nár had awoken from his unconsciousness and told his story. The Dwarves had grieved for three days but could not allow themselves any more sadness than this. Homeless and poor, they had been forced to live on, to work and to travel and find new places to set camp every now and then, when the soil below their feet had been trampled too badly and they left bald spots in the high grasslands. They remembered Thrór's words after all and tried not to cause any upheaval.

The youngster on the cart, watching the river and listening to the chirping and singing of the wrens that lived in the low broom of the mark, was Thrór's grandson Frerin, a beautiful boy of not even forty years of age. His features were surprisingly gentle and fair for a Dwarf and he looked very much like his mother, who had died on the childbed after the birth of Frerin's beloved sister. His eyes were of light grey like the first smoke from a fire, his black hair soft and wavy and held by a large silver barrette at the back of his head.

"He lied to me", Frerin muttered under his breath, while he curiously opened various boxes and pouches in search for a little something to eat or to drink, while the cart trundled across the grassland. "He said he would take me along today and then he left without me."

Neither Dwalin, nor Balin were sure if the young prince was earnestly complaining for he still seemed way too chipper, so they both shrugged it off as the nonsense babbling of a yob.

"We're keeping his promise for him", Balin smiled. "Don't hold a grudge."

"Nah", Frerin waved Balin's worries away, thus demonstrating that he hadn't been too fazed in the first place. He nicked a handful of pickled pearl onions from a small barrel while Balin wasn't looking and quickly hid them behind his back, an innocent smile on his lips. They rumbled on and every time the older Dwarf gazed somewhere else, Frerin would stuff one in his mouth and swallow it whole.

The day went on and the sun travelled with them, shining upon the vast grasslands and slowly moved across the Anduin, towards the Orocarni in the far east. The caravan settled at midday, they made fires and roasted rabbits and pheasants before they packed up again to journey onwards. Songs and stories kept them in a cheerful mood and they all laughed and some danced along. Nobody would have believed the hardships they had suffered through. The young prince on his cart, singing and stomping his feet and clapping merrily, impressed them the most, for not only had he witnessed dragon fire and the end of his home; he had also just lost his beloved grandfather. And still he stood amongst them and sang with a voice of velvet and gold and he beamed and smiled.

Frerin, to the people of Durin's folk, was a cheerful vessel of joy ever since the day he was born. He was well known amongst the innkeepers and workers of Erebor for he had regularly snuck away from the Royal Halls to come and drink with the miners and simple folk. He was generous and easily entertained and by some form of magic or charm, nobody really knew for sure, he made everyone in his company feel loved and cared for. It was a rare gift amongst the usually gloomy Dwarves of Durin's line, thus Frerin was popular with his people.

The carts rumbled into the sunset and when nightfall came, Frerin shifted on his cart to let the two youngest children travelling with the caravan hop on and they fell asleep, leaning against the young prince, listening to him humming quietly, as he gazed up to the stars.

Aldburg awoke at sunrise and the narrow streets soon bustled with life. The market criers began to set up their booths, the scent of fresh bread wafted along the streets and squares, a rooster crowed and amidst it sounded the splashing and gurgling of a beautiful fountain at the centre of the market. The mayor wandered about the streets, greeting the people and helping here and there. He listened up when the distant rumble of the Dwarven carts echoed across the lowly hills the city had been built upon and he watched as some people hurried to the city gates to welcome the traders and travellers. The caravan rolled through the streets of Aldburg, the Dwarven youngsters soon joined children running with the carts and as they reached the large market, the Dwarves began to unload their goods, humming and whistling in the morning sun.

Frerin soon said goodbye to Dwalin and Balin and scurried off, leaving the two to their trade, for even though they were both born into a family of great warriors and were by no means merchants, the exiled Dwarves of Erebor had learned the hard way, that they had to muck in wherever possible during these difficult times.

Unfortunately, Dwalin soon proved to be the worst merchant under the sun for he mistrusted the big folk and his grumpy mood easily scared the People of Rohan off, thus Balin kept him well in the back and occasionally asked him to stock up the goods or fetch something to eat and to drink. Frerin usually enjoyed watching the spectacle, laughing at the poor moody Dwalin and earning himself a smack around the head every now and then, but this day he had joined them for a completely different purpose.

He wandered through the busy city streets, watching the big folk carry on their daily business and quietly smiled to himself. Visiting the cities of Men always turned out a mighty big adventure for the young prince, for nobody here knew who he was. Frerin walked as a commoner, forced to dodge long arms and hands and anything they carried, for people rarely saw the small Dwarf wandering amongst them and sometimes stepped on him. He knew well that most of his kin hated it and therefore avoided places with many big people, but Frerin found joy in it and looked at the world from a different angle.

"Excuse me", he bowed to a woman, carrying a large sack with potatoes. "Would you be so kind to tell me where I can find the blacksmith in this town?"

She eyed him for a moment, seemingly bewildered for the people of Aldburg had gotten used to Dwarves on their market but not on their streets. When the young Dwarf bowed before her however, a gesture not common to happen to a mere farmer's wife like her, she smiled and chuckled a little.

"Just down this road and to the left and you will hear the sound of the anvil, my lord", she replied, shifting the heavy sack hanging down her back a little. "Do you need your weapons sharpened?"

"Oh no, I'm merely looking for someone. Thank you and have a wonderful day, dear lady!" Frerin exclaimed, a charming smile spread across his not so bearded features and he wandered on.

The lady had been right. He soon heard the clangour of a hammer upon an anvil and his feet carried him a little quicker, though he still carefully dodged the flying arms of the big folk and made sure not to step on anybody's toes. 'Do not cause an upheaval', he reminded himself of the words of his deceased grandfather, though he wasn't sure what an upheaval even consisted of. He zigzagged through the streets and soon the smell of fire and burning metal hung in his nose and the pounding grew louder. He saw the smoke rising from the forge and a bright smile spread across his face, when he finally found the one he had been looking for.

By the anvil stood a Dwarf, older than Frerin but still young amongst his kin. His black hair clung to the sweaty skin of his face, he looked grim, the blue eyes burning, fixed on the anvil before him and he brought a heavy hammer down on the glowing iron with a force, that even scared some of the men around him away. The clangour was deafening but the young prince did not worry, as he slowly crept up on the older one and curiously peered over his shoulder.

"What are you making?" he asked casually, causing the other one to jump and nearly hurl the hammer at him.

"For crying out loud, Frerin!" the older Dwarf cursed, brushing a strand of hair from his face while regaining his composure. "I told you not to sneak up on me like that! Just you wait, one day I will smash that hammer into your face."

"Hm", Frerin grinned and sat himself down on one of the closed water barrels by the furnace. "I promise I won't do it anymore, once that day has come. But honestly now, are you actually making anything or is this just you venturing out your frustration?"

"What frustration?" the other one asked innocently, taking a sip from a flask of wine.

"The frustration that you have been carrying everywhere with you, since grandfather died?" Frerin raised his eyebrows and he shook his head a little, when the other Dwarf turned his back on him, a gloomy look on his face.

The Dwarf bashing the metal so fiercely that sparks flew from it in a glistening rain, was no other than the young prince Thorin, Frerin's older brother and, since Thrór's sudden death, the next heir to the Throne of Erebor. He would have been beautiful amongst his kin, very much like his brother, hadn't it been for the foul mood and the never-ending grief that had carved deep, sorrowed wrinkles into his fair face already. His mane was black and thick like Frerin's, held back with the same silver barrette but unlike his brother, he already sported a prominent beard, braided carefully and clasped with two silver clips. He was wearing a plain, blue linen shirt, the sleeves tucked up and the crest of the House of Durin was graved into the silver buckle of his belt, proving him to be royalty.

"Has adad spoken to you?" Thorin asked after a while, his gaze fixed on the metal glistening red upon the dark anvil.

"No", Frerin sighed, wondering why everyone kept asking him the same question over and over. "He still hasn't spoken to anyone and he hasn't eaten. I believe Dís will soon force something down him, she's worried sick."

"Not like her to show it", Thorin muttered.

"I never said she shows it", Frerin smirked. "You still haven't answered my question though." His boots silently drummed against the barrel. "Are you actually making anything?"

"I actually am", Thorin chuntered, bringing the hammer down on the anvil once more. "I'm making money. You should try it some time, it might actually help our people."

The bitterness in his voice made Frerin churn a little. He was well aware that the carefree days were long gone and nobody needed to tell him that, for the Dwarves were no more but exiled wanderers, travelling across the lands since twenty years already. But still he remembered the glorious days in Erebor, when they had lived in wealth and merriment and Thorin had been kind and loving in those days, protecting his younger siblings and it had been easy to playfully infect him with many childish manners and to talk him into games and pranks and the lot.

He watched his brother for a while, remaining awfully quiet and while he tried to sort out his inner turmoil, a man approached the forge and he carried a bundle with what looked like at least a dozen knives and daggers.

"I believe you are the Dwarven blacksmith they speak about in this town?" he began without an introduction and Frerin saw the exasperation in his brother's eyes, as Thorin looked up to the man.

"I believe I am", he replied, his voice dark and blunt and so unlike the lovely sound that had once come from his lips when he sang songs to his siblings or told stories of treasures and trolls. "How may I help?"

"I need these sharpened", the man replied, putting the bundle down by the anvil. Thorin eyed the blades for a moment, before he nodded faintly.

"You can pick them up in the evening. They will be ready by then", he muttered and it broke Frerin's heart to see his brother like this. They were kings and princes and no forgers or blacksmiths. For a moment, he pondered whether it would be wise to remind the man of the royal heritage of the Dwarf he was talking to, believing that he should at least bow before them, but he kept his mouth shut. Ever since their home had been invaded, there were no princes amongst them anymore. Only merchants, makers, miners and paupers.

After they had agreed on a price and the man had left, Frerin looked around, searching for something to occupy himself with. It was then that he noticed a bag lying with Thorin's tools and he raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised.

"You brought it with you?" he asked confused and it took Thorin a moment to figure out what his brother was talking about. When he glanced at the bag, he merely shrugged.

"I was sure you would forget it. And you did, it seems", he replied and ignored the miffed glare of his younger brother. Frerin hopped off the barrel and picked up the bag. It was filled to the brim with thick logs of wood, probably forty or more. Frerin sighed quietly.

"Can't help it, can I?" he wondered quietly. "Can I sit with you then? I don't want to be on my own."

The hammer halted in mid-air and when it slowly sunk down on the anvil, Thorin had the most pained expression on his face. So bad, that Frerin believed for a moment that he had said something terribly wrong. Over the past years and especially since the disappearance of Thrór, the once loving relationship between the brothers had suffered badly, for Thorin changed with every wandering day. He had soon adopted the bitterness of their grandfather and it became harder and harder to cheer him up, until Frerin had begun to feel like a nuisance to Thorin, always pestering him and trying to make him laugh when he clearly did not want to.

He was thus close to revoke his question, ready to apologise, when his brother gently put a large, heavy hand on his head and ruffled the wavy hair up until it stood from his head like a cockscomb.

"You shouldn't even have to ask me that", Thorin mumbled, turning back to his work.

A smile spread on Frerin's lips and he returned to his barrel, pulling a beautiful carving knife from his belt. It was one of the first blades that Thorin had made when he was young and he had given it to Frerin as a present one day.

"Thought I better do", he exclaimed innocently, getting comfortable on the barrel before he picked a log from the bag and began to whittle away. "Before you beat me up again."

"Again?" Thorin paused, staring at his brother in disbelief. "Accuse me of beating you up once more, titch, and I will beat you up for real." Frerin's bright laughter rang across the streets like the beautiful sound of a big bronze bell and even Thorin smiled under his beard.

The brothers returned to the other Dwarves way after nightfall, wandering through the streets of Aldburg in a slow, comfortable pace. Everything on their bodies hurt. Their feet and legs from standing all day, their heads from the constant clangour and chatter, their arms from the many hours of work and their hands were calloused and bleeding, but at least did not hurt anymore for they had gone numb altogether. Yet both seemed somewhat merry and they talked quietly, looking at the large doors and windows, challenging each other to reach up to the thatched roofs without standing on tiptoes. Neither of them managed.

The market was ablaze with a large bonfire, the Dwarves happily sitting around it, chatting, drinking and singing. Many residents of Aldburg had joined their little feast and Dwarves and Men sat side by side, telling stories to another and drinking to friendships and comradeship. Amongst them were Balin and Dwalin, both holding large pints of ale. They greeted the princes, offered them drink and food and soon the hard labour was forgotten. No man knew that the future Kings of Erebor were sitting and drinking with them and nobody needed to know. Frerin told stories and sang while Dwalin played the fiddle and Dwarven men and women danced around the bonfire and celebrated late into the night.

By sunrise the carts were loaded with traded goods again, bags of potatoes and grains, cages with hens and rabbits, boxes with vegetables and rolls of linen, satin and velvet. The small sturdy oxen once again snorted in the morning air and the Dwarves bid their goodbyes to the few men and women that were up already or had not even gone to bed yet. The rumbling of the carts echoed once again through the narrow streets but this time, their beloved ones awaited the Dwarves as they journeyed out into the grassland again to return to the nothingness that was their home. Thorin and Frerin travelled together with Dwalin and Balin again and soon Frerin had fallen fast asleep, cuddled up by Thorin's side.

Many miles and hours away at the border of the Riddermark, the Dwarven camps slowly came to life, one after the other. Fires were lit, water was boiled and the strong smell of tea soon wafted across the trampled ground and in between, the many makeshift beds were soon packed away again to make place for deficient forges and looms. Dís stood by a fire, gently stirring a pot with strong black tea, enriched with the finest grog the Dwarves of Middle Earth brew. She had only been a child when Smaug had taken her home from her. A small girl of merely ten years, yet she remembered the dragon fire and the many screams and shouts and she remembered the strong arms of her father, lifting her up and carrying her through the secret passage to the Western door of the Lonely Mountain. She had cried for her brothers, tried to run back into the City for she had feared that Thorin and Frerin would burn alive if nobody helped them but her father held onto her tight and he smiled at her, his beard singed and his face black from the smoke.

"_Don't cry, cricket. Don't cry. They'll be alright, you'll see. We'll all be alright."_

She filled a mug with the strong drink and clasped her cold fingers around it, enjoying the heat and steam that radiated from it for a moment. Though spring approached, the air was chilly in the morning and the young Dwarven lass wrapped a thick, woollen cloak around her shoulders. As she wandered across the camp, she was greeted by many voices and smiled, nodding politely and occasionally stopping for a little chat. She took a small sip from the mug to warm herself up and continued on her way, zigzagging through the camps and past the many campfires burning bright in the rising sun. She found him at the far end of the camp, staring into nothing, while his fingers played with a thick ring, made from beautiful silver and white gold with a glistening amethyst set in the centre.

Since many years the Dwarves of Durin's line had forgotten where the ring had come from, but it had been a family heirloom for centuries. It had not been forged by Dwarves, that much they knew but the history of the ring was long forgotten and of no importance, for as long as a jewel was well crafted, it was precious to the Longbeards. When he head steps approaching, he quickly stuffed the ring into the pocket of his velvet jerkin.

"Adad?" her voice was gentle as a small forest river and yet he flinched a little, for he knew that even the calmest stream could turn into a gushing maelstrom.

He gazed to his side when she stepped up next to him, the steaming mug still in her cold hands. She eyed him for a moment, concern glistening in her blue, beautiful eyes. Over the past days, the great King Thráin had aged it seemed. The grey, thick streaks in his wiry, dark beard had grown a little wider, the silver clasps that held together braids and strands had already started to tarnish and the many worry lines were difficult to tell apart from the black runes that were tattooed on his forehead and temples, drawing the outlines of the crown he would never wear. When she offered him the mug, he hesitated.

"Please?"

Since the news of his father's death had reached them, Thráin had retired from the busy life, not speaking a word, not eating, not drinking, not sleeping. He had sat by himself, day and night, brooding over the ring and the map his father had left behind and even though he knew that he worried his children, he could not change it. And even now, when he looked into his daughter's eyes and saw the desperation in them, he could not help himself. His gaze wandered out to the horizon again, his mind dragged off to dark, deep places that Dís could not know about and he believed her to give up on her attempts sooner or later, like she had always done in the past days.

Dís waited and waited a little while longer, before she suddenly grabbed his hand and shoved the mug into his cold fingers, spilling the hot drink and burning his skin but she did not care and he tried hard, not to hiss. She did not say a word but glared at him, hurt and anger burning in her eyes and both of them knew that no word could have hurt him more. One single gaze said enough. _'Have it your way!'_, _'Fine, go on! Starve yourself!'_, '_I don't care anymore!'_. She spun around, her long, black braid flying and stomped off, leaving her father behind.

It was a curious thing, the stubbornness of Dwarves. One was as hot headed as the other and this pig-headedness seemed to run especially in the Line of Durin, for every King, Prince and Princess had a remarkable stamina and the patience to sit trouble out until things went their way again. Dís however seemed most talented in this and it was only a matter of time until she would have forced her father into giving in. Still anger had taken the better of her and she dashed through the camp, this time ignoring various greetings and she did not halt until she had reached the shores of the Limlight again, cursing and kicking pebbles into the flowing stream.

"Guess he still won't talk then", a voice suddenly sounded behind her, deep and rolling and the young lass sighed and merely shook her head.

A massive Dwarf approached her, taller than most and stoutly built. His thick, grey beard was braided into his once auburn hair, entwined with beads and golden clasps that shimmered in the morning sun, giving him away as nobility of some sort. He wore thick metal cuffs and a large, heavy belt and his shoes were made from iron and leather. The tanned skin of his face was heavily scarred and everyone who first laid eyes upon him knew that he was an experienced warrior, hardened by many battles.

"Not a word. The others are starting to worry. They are becoming more and more uneasy with each passing day and yet he refuses to acknowledge his position", Dís sighed.

"Hm", the old warrior smiled benignly. "'Tis a great position after all. He'll come around, have a little faith, lass."

The large Dwarf was no other than Fundin, Thráin's closest friend and one of the best fighters amongst the Longbeards. He was the father of Dwalin and Balin and at least one of his sons had inherited a lot from him, be it the grim face and the deep, thundering voice to say the least.

"Give him another day or two, I'm sure he's not simply brooding like that. Wouldn't be like your father to do that", he gently clasped her shoulder and it was a good thing that Dwarven women were sturdy, for even a gentle grip from a warrior like Fundin could easily break some fragile bones.

"I know. I'm merely worried, that's all. And Thorin isn't exactly helping either."

"Nah he's not", Fundin chuckled, drawing a small smile on Dís' lips. "'Tis a curious thing with those lads, sulking and pondering. Just lookin' at'em gets tiresome-"

The distant rattling of wheels cut him off and when they gazed south, they noticed the faint silhouettes of the many carts that returned from Aldburg, bringing new provisions.

"Speaking of brooding Dwarves", the old warrior smiled. "Maybe it would be wiser to try and kick your brother's rear, instead of your father's. Hasn't gotten so numb from all that mindless sittin' around yet."

The young Dwarven lass laughed when Fundin winked at her and together they strolled on to greet the merchants and travellers trundling towards them. It was another day in exile, another day without a home. In the life of a Dwarf, twenty years were not a long time and the wounds were still fresh and often split open again whenever something reminded them of their fate and yet they had grown accustomed to it, waiting patiently for the day when something would change. For they needed a change desperately, they needed new hope. Hope that Thrór, though great he had been in his days, had never given them. It was a task that now Thráin was burdened with, torn between grief for his father and responsibility for his people and he sat by himself, pondering and clenching his jaws in frustration and it was a strange feeling that dwelled up inside him. A burning heat, a fire so fierce and fuelled by wrath and the deep, fell wish for revenge on the ones that had not only taken his father from him but had blemished the honour of his kin. And he sat day and night, quiet and patient and waited while he plotted a gruesome, cruel plan in frightening silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Sunday again, time for an update!  
The story unfolds a little slowly at the moment, but no worries, we'll get to the action soon enough ;)

Starting off with a massive Thank you for the reviews and I, of course, would love to welcome annarien and LiL PriNCeSs Me to his story as well, since you two have already survived 'Men-i-Naugrim' :P I'm glad you're reading this chunk as well now.

The usual balderdash: I really, really love reviews and faves and follows and the like and I hope that you'll enjoy the next Chapter as well!

* * *

Chapter II

A quiet snickering and giggling disturbed his dreams. He dreamt of large, magnificent Halls in black marble. Of golden thrones and emerald jewels and piles of golden coins and bars and many beautiful chests, filled to the brim with precious gems. He dreamt of a massive hearth in which a fire was ablaze, shedding light on many friendly faces and he dreamt of song and laughter. But the images soon faded and became blurry, for his memory was vague and the old times long lost and forgotten. Still he smiled in his dream, looking like a child that knew no sorrow and no despair.

The gush of water that suddenly came crashing down onto his face thus startled him and he shot up, puffing and blowing and blinking the ice-cold drops from his eyes. He feverishly looked around and found himself still on the bed of the cart, safely tucked in a corner but the goods and barrels that had surrounded him were long gone, the cart unloaded and the fluffy ox stood with his herd, grazing lazily in the already setting sun.

Frerin quickly brushed a wet strand of hair from his face and his fair features darkened when he noticed the ones responsible for this most uncomfortable wakening. Before him stood Dís, a bucket in her hands and by her side was Thorin, smirking behind his black beard.

"Not funny", he chuntered quietly, getting up and wringing his shirt out.

"A little. Heard you had too much to drink at the market yesterday?" Dís grinned. In her dark suede pants and the ragged white linen shirt, she very much resembled the male workers and all that gave her away as a noble lass was the kempt hair and the beautifully engraved jewellery, as well as the many clasps and barrettes that held her braid in place. After twenty years in exile none of the siblings fit their status anymore and the once magnificent nobility of Erebor had turned into no more than beggars and craftsmen.

"We tried to wake you more gently but as usual, it didn't work", Thorin shrugged and pulled his younger brother off the cart, only to quickly step to the side as Frerin tried to wipe his drenched face on his jerkin.

"Why wake me anyways?" the youngster asked, watching as the water ran down his thighs and drenched parts of his pants as well. He sighed deeply. "It was a well deserved sleep and very much needed at that."

The cheerfulness suddenly faded from Dís' eyes and she looked at Thorin, concern shown on her beautiful features.

"It's been seven days now", the eldest began and immediately, Frerin's face fell as well, for he knew what his brother was referring to. Seven days ago, Nár had told them the gruesome story of their grandfather's death and since seven nights, the images haunted Frerin in his sleep and he failed to grasp the whole, bitter reality.

"He won't eat, he won't sleep. If he goes on like that, we might lose him as well", Thorin's voice sounded bitter and the gloomy expression returned to his face until he very much resembled Thrór. "We have to do something."

"And what? We've tried all there is", Frerin muttered, still shaking water from his boots. "I'm still surprised that he wouldn't even fall for Dís' puppy eyes. That usually works."

"You're the one with the puppy eyes", the young lass chuntered, casually dropping the heavy wooden bucket on his toes. Frerin drew a sharp breath and Thorin rolled his eyes. "We need to try again then. Not only for us, but for everybody. The others might have gotten used to the thought of being wandering merchants for the rest of their time, but they won't do it without a King."

"It's a bit cruel to force him into becoming a King before supper, isn't it?" Frerin mused, watching as his sister turned on her heels and began to head towards the border of the massive camp.

"Get your rear in gear now", Thorin hissed, grabbing his brother's wrist to pull him along. He entirely ignored Frerin's bemused "You're a poet, nadad. A true poet."

The Dwarves had spent the day sorting out the goods the merchants had brought from Aldburg and in the mild breeze of the evening, the sound of hammers and the creaking of looms wafted across the Riddermark, accompanied by the singing and chirping of nightingales and wrens. Families sat together, preparing meals and sharing stories and every now and then, they heard a mother humming her child to sleep.

As Thorin wandered amongst his kin, he dreaded to look around for he feared to see the same despair in their eyes that he felt deep within his heart. He wondered about he carefreeness of his siblings, about the many chipper songs they could still sing and he wondered, whether the was the only one who felt his heart dying slowly from homesickness and the deep desire to return to the place of his birth. In the eyes of the elder, Fundin especially, as well as Gróin, Fundin's younger brother, he was no more than a child, stuck in dreams of home and infested by his grandfather's mad thoughts of revenge but something inside told him that there was more to it than this. That this burning desire was more than simply a dream but a hope he had to hold on to, so that the grief and hurt would not lead him astray as it had lead his grandfather into his certain death.

His father's listlessness frightened him. The fatigue in his eyes, the slumped shoulders; Thorin could not help but wonder if all this came from the loss of Thrór alone. Though being prepared to rule over the Longbeards one day, Thráin had spent his days being a warrior and not a King. He cared little for formalities and politeness, cared even less for titles and noble attire and he preferred good strong grog after a bloody battle to a royal feast at a set table. Thráin, Thorin found, had always been very different from Thrór. A doer rather than a thinker and not easily impressed by anything or anybody. And he desperately wished for his father to return to the world of the living and rise to his strength and power once again. For now they needed him most.

They found Thráin in the company of Fundin, Gróin and Nár, still sitting by the fire, still deep in thoughts. The flames cast dark shadows on their father's face, blacking out the thick tattoos even further but his grey eyes gleamed in the light of the flames and Thorin and Dís were thus surprised when Frerin held them back suddenly. It seemed as if the air around them was dense. So dense they could taste it on the tips of their tongues.

"Wait", the younger brother whispered and he was right, for Gróin carefully lifted his hand as well, beckoning them to stay back.

Seven days had passed. Seven days without sleep or food. Seven days without a word spoken. Suddenly, Thráin stood up, straightening up to his quite impressive height, his massive chest raised, the smart eyes glistening dangerously under the thick brows. And when he spoke, his voice rolled from the depth of his strong body, deep and dark and threatening as thunder.

"This cannot be borne!"

Time stopped for a moment and the surrounding Dwarves stared in silence. A grim determination lay on Thráin's prominent features, so grim and so strong that Thorin stood speechless, for he had never seen his father like this. After those endless days of waiting, hearing their father's voice and seeing him standing tall again felt most surreal to the young siblings. It dawned on Dís first and suddenly a bright smile spread on her lips and she felt tears of joy dwelling up but shed none of them. Frerin broke into a large grin and an excited shimmer gleamed in Thorin's azure eyes. Fundin looked at his brother and a deep, dark chuckle came over his lips. The days of waiting were over. Once and for all.

"What are you gonna do then?" Gróin asked. He had a fiery mane of auburn hair and a thick beard; decorated with many golden clasps and his eyes were grass green and bright. The massive golden belt hung heavy with various small axes and hammers, tools that he carried with him every day, just in case something unexpected might happen.

"We'll travel to Edoras!" Thráin declared and the Dwarves looked at him surprised.

"Edoras?" Nár blinked. "But your father demanded us to-"

"My father is gone", Thráin's voice rumbled, making Thorin's heart flutter. "He was taken from me by an abomination that has mocked my kin for far too long and I will not sit idly anymore! We will travel to Edoras for I need to ask a favour of Fréaláf. And I want Fundin, Gróin and Thorin to come with me."

"Edoras, eh?" Fundin chuckled. "You wanna mine the great Golden Hall?"

"Could do with the treasure", Thráin grinned. "But no. Go pack some light provisions, no weapons but only daggers to defend yourselves. We'll leave tonight."

"Tonight?" Dís stepped towards her father, gently clasping his hand. "Please eat and sleep first. You need to rest, adad. One night at least."

"I've rested long enough, cricket", the old warrior smiled gently underneath his thick beard and placed a loving kiss on his daughter's forehead. "The times of rest are over. Go now, pack up."

"What about me?" Nár asked. In the past days, the warrior had grown incredibly old, haunted by nightmares and the gruesome images of his slain King and friend. He still felt the touch of Thrór's cold skin, felt the weight of the severed head and he still smelled the rotten scent of copper in the deep hours of the night. Thráin reached out and without asking, Nár placed the leathery pouch in his hand. It jingled; heavy with coins and Thráin opened it and took one golden piece out to examine it. It was imprinted with Dwarven runes and thus stolen from the treasures of Khazad-dûm undoubtedly.

"What was his name?" he mumbled, carefully turning the coin in his fingers.

"Azog", Nár muttered, his voice trembling with fear. "His name is Azog."

"Azog", Thráin quietly repeated the name. He stuffed the coin back into the pouch and firmly clasped Nár's shoulders. "You are afraid of me, aren't you?"

"I am", the old Dwarf admitted. "I've spent the days waiting for your grudge to come upon me for I could not save your father."

"My father was beyond saving for a long time. I hold no grudge against you."

Thorin flinched a little. He had never openly admitted it, but for the past years, he had found it difficult to look up to his father. Thráin was a great warrior but no King. Thrór on the other hand had been regal and magnificent, a true King and extraordinary leader, even when faced with exile and the many evils that lurked in this world. He loved his father and he never doubted his love but no matter how hard he tried, he could not imagine Thráin as the King of the Longbeards. Nár merely stared at Thráin.

"But I-"

"I could ask you however, to make it up to me if it helps you."

"It does."

"Fight with me, Nár. Forget your pain and your old bones and let the haunting images quicken and strengthen you. Join me and take revenge for what these creatures have done to my father."

A sudden flash of life gushed through the old and tired eyes of the Dwarf and a fire began to burn in his soul, bright and ablaze and a smirk tugged at his lips.

"I shall", the old Dwarf bowed his head to his new King and Thráin smiled.

"Get ready now", he nodded to Fundin, Gróin and Thorin and they disappeared into various directions.

"Adad-", Dís tried once more but again her father cut her off.

"I'll be fine, quit your heartache already. A child should not have to worry for their parent. Frerin?"

The younger of the two brothers met his father's gaze and it was full of love and pride.

"Watch over your sister and your kin while we're gone. You'll represent me while I speak to Fréaláf. Understood?"

"Sure." A carefree smile spread across Frerin's lips and it was a curious thing, for that smile did not make Thráin wary, neither did it worry him. Frerin was a joyful little creature and seldom concerned since he believed that everything would end well sooner or later. If it didn't, it wasn't the end yet. And though he seemed reckless at times and only slightly bothered by status and title, his loyalty to his family made him unexpectedly reliable. The prospect of guarding a few hundred exiled Dwarves for a few days thus did not scare him and he regarded it as quite an adventure. Dís sighed heavily and shook her pretty head, certain already that she'd have to step in every now and then.

"Adad?" Frerin suddenly spoke up as Thráin was already about to turn around and pack up for the journey himself. "You will hurry though, won't you?"

"That does not depend on us so much", Thráin grumbled. If there was one trait he shared with his father then it was the innate distrust of the big folk and the Dwarven pride, that already went rampage within his heart, for he did not really wish to ask some King of the race of Men for help.

Dís and Frerin watched as their father wandered off, strong and determined, yet the two siblings looked at each other with some worry drawn on their young faces.

"He won't do anything reckless now, will he?" Dís asked quietly. A lust for revenge had awoken in the exiled King and Frerin feared to answer his sister. He thus placed a tender kiss on her cheek and then pulled her along to find Thorin.

Jerky and seasoned bread, plenty of water and even more ale, a hooded cloak, a whittling knife and two small daggers, the young heir of Durin did not need much for this journey and any unnecessary ballast would slow them down on their way. The Dwarf was too busy packing to notice his siblings approaching and they watched him in silence for a while. Though they knew that Thorin strived to be like Thrór one day, he very much looked like Thráin right now, some wavy strands of black hair hanging lose into his grim face, the flames of a small fire glistening on the metal clips in his beard and his blue eyes shimmered.

"What do you think he'll ask of him?" Dís broke the silence after a while.

"I don't know", Thorin admitted, still focussed on his belongings. "But he will have his reasons."

"He wouldn't dare ask Men to fight alongside with him, would he?"

"I don't know", the oldest brother repeated. "I- I know nothing really."

"Hey now", Frerin smiled, handing Thorin his coat. "He's back. He's with us again and he will change things. It's gonna get better from here, you'll see."

"Stop it with your never-ending optimism, will you?" Dís chuntered quietly.

"No, don't", a small smile spread on Thorin's lips. "It helps."

He hugged his siblings goodbye and they wished him a safe journey. Edoras lay far to the South, close to the western walls of Aldburg and they would most likely be gone for a few days. In the dead of the night, the four Dwarves scurried off into the darkness, small and quick. They ploughed through the tall grass of the Riddermark, not shedding a light, not making a sound. Around them, the night sizzled, crickets chirped and from the depth of Lothlórien to the west, beasts cried and howled.

A new era was to begin for the Longbeards. None of the four courageous souls rushing through the night expected splendour and glory again. A dark and gruesome future lay ahead of them, that much they knew. Struggle and battle and many lives lost on the way but at least they were moving again. At least the days of despair and lethargy were over. Thorin looked up at the night sky, looked at the stars glistening above his head and he wondered if he was ready for this. Being young and inexperienced, he had already seen too much in his life and something within him wanted to run away. To look away. And when he saw the grim determination on his father's face, the pride and dignity in his grey eyes, he remembered that there was a reason to be brave now. To protect his kin. To reclaim their honour. To make his father proud.

When the sun rose above the Misty Mountains, bright and red and blinding, the Dwarves still scurried across the grassland, not resting, not slowing down. They were not made for long, fast travelling and they knew that they would not be able to hold up the pace but something hastened their steps. It was the wonderful feeling of soil and rock below their feet; the warmth of the earth that heated them up in the chilly morning air and it was the dream of something great. Something inevitable that had waited far too long to happen. They rested by midday and finally Thráin allowed himself to sleep for a few hours before they set off again. Neither the cold nights, nor the bright heat of the sun during the day could slow them down or stop them and the high grass of the Riddermark flew past them as they followed the peaks of the Misty Mountains and had soon left the borders of Lothlórien way behind them. During the night, they passed the river Entwash. Far to the west lay the Gap of Rohan and before them, across the Westfold, lay Edoras.

The banners wafted in the chilly breeze that gushed across the Mark, a white horse against a green background and with the first cockcrow, the city slowly came to life. The first person on his feet was the equerry. He briefly washed his face and got dressed quickly to wake his stable lads and the maidservants. A long day lay ahead of them and they tended to the one possession the Rohirrim prided themselves with: the beautiful and strong horses of the Mark. Low neighing and snorting, the warmth of the stalls and the musky, calming scent of horses, greeted them. As they began to muck out, feed and groom, the city outside the massive wooden stables woke up from a refreshing slumber as well and soon the ringing of hammers on anvils echoed through the City, the smell of fresh flatbread and smoked ham wavered through the many winded and hilly roads and a lively chatter rose up into the air. On the highest hill, glistening in the early morning sun with a golden dome stood the Hall of Meduseld, glorious and beautiful.

Thorin glanced up at the golden glory, closely following his father as they passed by palisade that surrounded the city. Some pawns and maidens watched them warily but nobody tried to stop them. They had grown used to the thought of Dwarves wandering across the Riddermark, though none had been seen within the borders of Edoras since Thrór had paid homage to King Fréaláf. Thus the four Dwarves reached the higher hills unmolested and safely. It was there that they suddenly halted for before them, on a low wall sat a young boy. He was no more than ten years old and had golden, long hair and piercing blue eyes and a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Anyone who's too small to ride a steed is not permitted in Meduseld!" he chirped up and the Dwarves halted and watched the boy curiously. While Fundin and Gróin puffed themselves up, matching the lad in height and Thorin watched the boy with animosity in his eyes, Thráin grinned at him from underneath his thick beard.

"Guess you're pissed off that you're not allowed to enter either then, eh?"

"I am a rider of the Mark!" the boy exclaimed.

"On what, a rocking horse?" the Dwarven King laughed. "What's your name, boy?"

"Walda, son of Brytta Léofa my Lord!"

"Son of Brytta. A little prince I see. Tell me, Walda, son of Brytta, since we are apparently not allowed to enter Meduseld, would you find a way to lure your grandfather out here? We desire to speak with him."

The face of the boy suddenly fell, the cheekiness gone and his voice sounded very quiet.

"Grandfather is very sick and old. He barely leaves the Hall anymore."

"Sorry to hear that, son. Anyone in his stead willing to see us then?"

Thorin watched his father and tried hard not to show his surprise. There indeed was nothing comforting about Thráin as he stood before the boy, dirty and tired and exhausted from the long journey and yet there was honest compassion in his grey eyes, maybe hidden underneath the thick brows and the black tattoos but there it was nonetheless. He was no King, no born ruler like Thrór had been and like Thorin hoped he would be. But he was something different. A warrior, a leader, a companion and an example. And right now, he was no more than a father; worried for a child that was not his.

"Your old man, maybe?" Thráin tried to cheer the boy up with a grim smile and Walda shrugged.

"I don't know if he will speak to you. But I'll try."

"Good lad."

Many miles to the North, the sun rose above the countless Dwarven camps as well and hushed voices and whispers flitted from campfire to campfire. Voices telling of Thráin's sudden departure to the South and of changes going on. The Dwarves of Erebor were loyal folk however and they trusted their King and awaited his return patiently, though some of them wondered and worried for the last time their King had set off on a journey, he had not returned. Many sought information from Frerin and the young Dwarf merrily told everyone that asked, offering tea and grog on the way and even though the sun was still looming low above the mountain range and a few stars still glistened on the pale sky, he was chipper and cheerful already, wide awake and welcoming the new day. Change was upon them. He could smell it in the chilly morning air.

While he sat by the fire, warming his damp hands on a hot, steaming mug of grog, he was soon accompanied by a Dwarf, even younger than himself and Dís. If he had been born a Man, he would be a teenager merely, 16 years old and with only a light, reddish fluff on his cheeks and smart light eyes. He slumped down next to the young prince, who raised his eyebrows at him.

"One sip", the youngster demanded.

"Not a chance", Frerin clutched the mug in his hands. "I know your father's off but I won't risk it again."

"Just one", the youngster complained but again to no avail. Both lads looked up when Dís joined them, smiling at the young Dwarf and ruffling his hair.

"Missing your dad already?"

"No. But amad is. She says the little one is nagging too much, it does her head in", the youngster answered, still peeping at the steaming mug in Frerin's hands.

"Must be fun to have a baby brother. I only have those two old and useless fellas", Dís pointed at Frerin, who puffed himself up a little. The lad sitting with them was young Óin, son of Gróin. He often sat with the young Heirs of Durin, listening to their stories and many tales and he seemed especially close to Frerin. His cheerful nature was highly admired by the boy and he strove to become a literate just like Frerin was. He had even managed to cajole him into teaching him how to read and write and the two had spent many hours together, lost in books.

They offered the youngster a little something to eat and drink and sat together for a merry chat, when the carefree little gathering was suddenly disrupted by raised voices and rash whispers and the Dwarves around them stirred. They heard the sound of many hoofs on the dry grass and got up from their spots when a small group of riders trotted towards them, carefully avoiding the many campfires. It took them a while to come close enough but when they did, Dís gasped in surprise.

It was a bunch of Dwarves approaching them, sitting straight on sturdy, fluffy ponies. They looked exhausted and worn out from a long ride and yet there was something noble and magnificent about them. The ponies snorted, their breath coming in puffs in the chilly morning air and they halted only a few feet away from the young Dwarves. At their lead were an old Dwarf, the white hair and beard shimmering in the orange glow of the rising sun. He wore large shoulder plates, forged from copper and his boots were iron capped and heavy, barely fitting into the stirrups. He eyed the youngsters with a grim but curious glance, his dark eyes glistening like onyx.

"I desire to speak to Thráin, son of Thrór. Lead us to him", he demanded and Dís folded her arms before her chest, obviously displeased by the rude tone of his voice.

"My father is not around I'm afraid", Frerin replied, a smile tugging at his lips again. "Maybe I can help you?"

"Your father?" the old Dwarf watched him surprised. "Can't be the young Thorin though, can you?"

"No my Lord, I am Frerin, Thráin's second child. And this is my sister Dís."

"Are you indeed", the Dwarf kept eyeing them for a little while more, before he suddenly began to laugh, warm and wholeheartedly and it rumbled from the depth of his massive chest like a little temblor. "I apologize then, for the lack of manners on my part. I hope you'll forgive, dear Lord and Lady, our journey was long and straining and I might need a good rest and an even better breakfast before I return to my senses."

He bowed his head before the two young Dwarves.

"My name is Grór, Lord of the Iron Hills."

Twenty years ago, when Smaug sacked Erebor and killed many Dwarves in the burning flames of his fire, many Longbeards had fled to the east, past the ruined City of Dale and further on, abandoning their travelling kin. They had made it to the Iron Hills, a Dwarven stronghold in the north, firmly led by others of Durin's kin, yet not of his direct line. For many, many years, the Dwarves of the Iron Hills had lived unfazed by dragons and battles and they had developed their own habits and standards and had thus began to differ from the Dwarves of Erebor.

They were remarkably large for their kind, strong and massive and grim. A battle hardened folk, loud and rough and often ill mannered, for they were not of noble descent and only cared little for integrity and bearing. They were often tattooed from head to toe and many had fine silver rings pierced through various parts of their bodies as a trial of their courage and loyalty to their Lord. Their armour was barely forged from metal but mainly from iron and every Dwarf of the Iron Hills wore heavy, solid boots made from iron or at least iron-capped. They were proud and easily offended but their lack of manners they made up with unmatched courage and sturdiness.

"We've come to pay homage to Thráin and offer our condolences. As soon as the news of Thrór's death had reached the Iron Hills, we had set off to find you."

"That is most kind of you", Frerin replied. "I am afraid that your meeting with my father will have to wait. I don't know when he will return to us."

"Truly a shame", Grór muttered and dismounted his pony, holding onto the reins of the shying animal. "Where did he go to, if I may ask."

"He travelled to Edoras to speak to King Fréaláf, though I don't know on what matter. He set off with three companions about two days ago, my brother Thorin amongst them."

"Edoras?" Grór eyed the youngster surprised. "Well- if it is not too much to ask I would like to ask for your hospitality until your father has returned, thus I truly desire to speak with him."

"Naturally, my Lord. We might have little to offer at the moment but the little we have, we gladly share with our kin."

Dís shot her brother an entirely unimpressed glance. He behaved well, she had to give him that but she knew that the friendliness and offer of food and drink partially stemmed from the hope of a feast and many new tales to hear. The Frerin standing beside her right now was half representative of Thráin, half curious child and Dís was delighted that Grór knew nothing of this.

Another Dwarf dismounted his horse and stepped up next to the Lord of the Iron Hills. He was even bigger and wore light armour made from copper and solid gold. His wiry black beard was held by many golden clasps and an ugly scar ran across his face, cleaving his bottom lip and leaving an aisle in the black beard, running down to his chin. He bore a massive sword on his back and his cheeks were covered in black, Dwarven runes.

"This is my son, Náin", Grór smiled and the large Dwarf bowed his head before the two young Dwarves, a gesture quickly returned by them for they feared to arouse the warrior's grudge. "And the young fella over there is my second commander and Captain of the City Guard, Náli."

On a dapple grey pony sat a Dwarf not much older than Frerin. He was dressed in a red suede jerkin and a fur trimmed brown coat and his feet stuck in the same heavy, iron capped boots that every Dwarf from the Iron Hills wore. He would have not looked any different to the rest of the company, had it not been for his flamboyant mane of blond hair that shone in the rising sun like a halo. The golden strands were wavy and partially hanging lose into his young, fair face, held back by a golden barrette at the back of his head and braided at the temples. His beard was tidily braided, starting at the whiskers all down into his goatee and since he was still young, probably too young for a Dwarf of such high rank, nothing more than blond stubble covered his cheeks and jaws.

His blue eyes glistened curiously as he eyed the Dwarves of Erebor. He bowed his head to Frerin and when he laid eyes upon Dís, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips and he nonchalantly winked at her. The smile quickly turned into a cheeky and cheerful smirk when the young lass suddenly blushed and turned around to scurry off, muttering about breakfast and grog.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunday once more. And not just any Sunday but Sneak Peak Day. Anyone else watching tonight?

Anyways, let's not waste too much time with babbling and onto the next Chapter. Thank you guys once again for your lovely reviews and enjoy this Chapter!

* * *

Chapter III

"I don't like d'em looks."

Fundin folded his massive arms before his chest, looking around most displeased. A small cluster of children had formed around the Dwarves, giggling and laughing with joy and quietly whispering amongst themselves. They of course had never seen Dwarves in their lives and were thus very much interested in these strange creatures that looked like adults but were no taller than them. Fundin snarled and bore his teeth and some children backed off, laughing and snickering.

The sun had risen higher already and the four Dwarves had gotten comfortable scattered around the small wall, still waiting for Walda to return with somebody. The boy had run off, up to the Golden Hall and was, since then, not seen again. While Gróin comfortably sat on the wall, smoking a pipe and occasionally kicking a child that scurried past, Thorin felt most uneasy. They had quickly figured out that he was the youngest amongst the group and hence tried to trick him into games but the young prince did not feel particularly playful. He thus sided with Fundin and tried staying close to him, for the bearing of the massive warrior scared some of the brats away. Thráin on the other hand seemed largely unfazed. He did not appreciate being touched and growled at the children whenever they tried, but other than that he patiently answered questions and told some short tales. It may have seemed strange but he was a father himself after all and quite used to having such little pests running about. His children had been no better when they were younger.

"Feel like some caged beast", Fundin muttered. "Oi! Stop lookin', ye daffy titch!"

Thráin chuckled, handing a tiny ruby to a young, blond girl.

"No wonder your kids turned out so messed up. Wonderful father you are."

"You what?" Fundin chuntered but was cut off by some shouting and yelling coming from the Golden Hall a few feet above.

A Man appeared, blond and somewhere in his forties. By his side was Walda, smiling so wide and proud that a tooth gap was visible. The Man shooed the children away and only when he came closer did the Dwarves detect his obviously noble status, for he was dressed in silk and velvet and his clothes were embroidered with golden yarn.

"My apologies, my Lords", the Man began as he came closer. "Those little rascals meant no offense."

"None taken", Thráin replied with his thundering voice. "You're Lord Brytta I assume?"

"I am indeed", the Man replied, bowing his head as he reached the strange group of travellers. "I believed that the Dwarves would not enter Edoras again. Your King at least made that quite clear last time he came by."

"And I had hoped we could leave it at that agreement but unfortunately the circumstances have changed", Thráin replied, not at all intimidated by the bigger Man. "Is there a chance to discuss the matter somewhere warm with food and drink? We've barely rested on the way."

Brytta eyed the Dwarves for a moment, unsure what to make of all this. The Men of Rohan had showed a generous hospitality to the Dwarves of Erebor and in return, the Dwarves had shown their best behaviour and delighted the Rohirrim with goods beyond compare. Yet the Lord of Rohan felt uneasy, letting Dwarves enter the Golden Hall of Meduseld, for he knew of Dragon Sickness and everything that came with it.

"I am wary, I must admit. Letting a group of Dwarves enter a Hall rich with-"

"And since I understand your worry, I will take no offense again, though I now have every right to", Thráin cut him off, before he could make it worse. "I am giving you one more chance to make this right, laddie. And by that I mean that you better take us someplace where there's food and drink and I don't care if it's the Golden Hall or an ordinary tavern."

"You are aware that you are speaking to the future King of Rohan, aren't you?" Brytta asked, a little cutty. "Some respect might be advisable, Dwarf."

"I show you as much respect as you show me, Brytta Léofa, future King of Rohan. As much respect as you deserve from the King of Erebor. Only because you are one more foot above the ground does not mean I will let you talk down to me."

Fundin chuckled quietly and Thorin shifted from one foot to the other. A true King surely would have found a more appropriate way to resolve this but Thráin, being the outspoken and often rude Dwarf he was, blustered straight into Edoras and everything went topsy-turvy.

"The King of-"

"Like I said, the circumstances have changed", Thráin chuntered. "Now, will you hear us out or not?"

Though perplexed, Brytta turned on his heal to lead the Dwarves up to the Hall of Meduseld, suddenly not worried about the Dwarven gold-craze anymore. When they passed the most bewildered looking Walda, Thráin gently ruffled through the boy's blond hair.

"Sorry for that lad. Your father will be a most protective King one day", he smiled for he did not wish for the boy to get the wrong idea of his father.

Upon entering Meduseld, Fundin and Thráin soon found all worries to be useless for even though the Hall was said to be golden, there was barely any gold within those wooden walls. The straw roof shimmered golden and most walls had been richly decorated with paintings and tapestries but none of the Dwarves were interested in stealing the painted history of Rohan.

"Why the fuss in the first place?" Gróin muttered, looking around carefully for maybe there was a rare gem waiting somewhere but he was soon disappointed.

"That's what you call a Golden Hall?" Thráin asked outspoken and Thorin wished for a hole in the ground to disappear into.

"Why, what do you call a Golden Hall, Master Dwarf?" Brytta demanded, relieved that the Dwarves took no interest in art.

"Well- a Hall made from gold of course", the exiled King replied a little disgruntled.

At the end of the Hall, on a wooden throne that showed beautiful carvings of horses along the head and the armrests, sat an old Man, his hair and beard shining white already. On his head sat a heavy, golden crown and the old, blue eyes lay under a grey veil already. When the Dwarves came closer, he sat upright and tried to look as dignified as a Man of seventy years could.

"My Lord, we have visitors from-"

"Erebor", the old King Fréaláf cut his son off. "I recognise a Dwarf when I see one for I'm not blind yet. I do wonder however. You are not the Dwarf that came to see me last time."

"No, my Lord. I am Thráin, son of Thrór", the Dwarf bowed his head before the King of Rohan and so did his companions.

"You have come to speak to me in your father's stead?"

"I have no choice, my Lord. My father was killed a few days ago." The pained twitch around Thráin's eyes disappeared as quickly as it had come and only Thorin noticed it. He didn't listen to Fréaláf's condolence and the kind words for they were no more than a hollow act of sympathy anyways. He watched his father and slowly came to question his beliefs, for it seemed as if Thráin did suffer from his father's death. Even more than Thorin had believed. And he quietly began to understand how hard it must be to remain a stronghold, when one felt like crumbling down.

The Dwarves were offered a seat at one of the many tables scattered around the Hall and Brytta helped his father up and guided him to sit with the Dwarves. Tea and spiced bread and some smoked ham was placed before them and while Fundin and Gróin happily tucked in, not minding any table manners, nor Brytta's irritated glances, Thorin tried to mimic his father, only taking little bites and little sips and he was pretty much certain that he would never get a full stomach like this. He was surprised though, that Thráin, though bold he was, seemed to know how to behave around other folks.

"And you have come to tell me of this shift of authority amongst your kin?" Fréaláf asked, his cold, old fingers clasped around a steaming mug of tea and Gróin eyed a precious golden ring on his finger for a while until Thráin eventually kicked him under the table.

"Partly, yes", the exiled King agreed. "I have also come to ask for your help."

Not only Fréaláf and Brytta, but the other Dwarves as well, listened up for none of them knew what Thráin was up to just yet. The exiled King leaned back on his chair, the hot mug of tea in his hands, causing the thick jewels in his rings to get steamed up.

"My father was killed when he ventured out to the Mines of Moria. He was slain by a Gundabad Orc named Azog who claims Khazad-dûm for himself now. I cannot ignore this offense. The Orcs of the Misty Mountains have to pay for what they did, not only to my father but to my entire kin."

Fréaláf sat in silence for a while and Brytta shifted uncomfortably.

"And now you need an army?"

"No", Thráin chuckled. "I will not ask Men to fight the wars of Dwarves. This battle is Dwarven business alone, I am not asking for Men, my Lord."

Fundin glanced at his brother and Gróin merely shrugged.

"What is it you ask of me then?" Fréaláf demanded.

"Horses", Thráin simply replied and had the strange company speechless for a moment. He looked from one surprised face to the other. "What? You are horselords aren't you? I thought you had plenty of those beasts around."

"We do", Brytta replied. "I do wonder though, what Dwarves would want with horses. They are not for eating."

"You really do think us barbaric, don't you?" Thráin chuntered. "I have no intention of eating them but we will need them to travel. The Dwarves of Erebor have suffered great losses to their number and my kin is tired. We need more allies for this war and I know exactly where to find them but the way is long. Too long to march on foot and Dwarves do not breed their own ponies. Ever tried to ride an ox? Stupid dipshits they are, only give you fleas. Thus I am asking for horses."

"And where, if I may ask, do you intend to take those horses?"

"To the east", Thráin replied. "So far to the east that your maps won't show it anymore."

"The Orocarni", Fundin muttered and Thráin nodded.

"I cannot promise that your animals will make this journey alive", the exiled King calmly explained and Thorin began to believe that they would leave empty handed. "I will thus not even offer to bring them back to you but I will buy them from you with whatever we have and whatever you need. Is that acceptable?"

Brytta exchanged a quick glance with his father and it was quite apparent that neither of them seemed happy with it. The magnificent horses of the Riddermark were the pride of the Rohirrim and they were more than mere means of transport. They were comrades and friends, they had names, souls and voices and the Rohirrim mourned the death of a horse as much as they mourned the death of a Man.

"The Horses of the Mark will be too big for you", Brytta remarked after a while. "You would not be able to stay in the saddle for such a long time, much less to travel fast."

"The ponies would do though", Fréaláf muttered.

"Father-!" Brytta began but was cut off by his father.

"I will give you ten ponies, Thráin, son of Thrór. If you can afford as many."

"Ponies?" Fundin muttered. "Those'll break down before we make it past the Iron Hills."

"They are sturdy and strong and their small hooves can easily travel across narrow mountain paths. I believed that the Dwarves in particular would appreciate small size", Fréaláf replied bluntly.

"You callin' me small, old man?" the tough warrior puffed himself up and the King of Rohan laughed.

"Ten ponies. That is my offer. Take it or leave it, Master Dwarf."

Thorin watched his father from the corner of his eyes. A journey to the Orocarni, the Red Mountains to the far east of Middle Earth, was no less risky than Thrór's attempt to reclaim Moria on his own and Thorin was certain that his father was more than aware of this. Never had the Longbeards ventured so far east and only a few Iron Hills Dwarves had ever seen the lands of Rhûn and whatever lay beyond. And even if they did make it there alive without being killed by wild beast or the Easterlings who claimed the realm as theirs, there was no guarantee that any Orocarni Dwarf would help them on this quest. And Thorin wondered where his father was taking all this confidence from but did not dare to question him out loud. At least not in front of Fréaláf and Brytta.

"We'll take the offer."

The Dwarves decided to stay in Edoras for a few days and do whatever was necessary to prepare the journey. Fréaláf allowed Thráin to use the small but well stocked library of the City and the exiled King seemed relieved for he had feared that he might have to travel to Gondor for maps and books. The little knowledge the Longbeards had on the East had been lost when the dragon had taken Erebor and Thráin remembered young Frerin crying badly because he had to leave his maps and books behind. Days and nights, Thráin spent, copying maps and notes and he ordered Fundin and Gróin to buy blades and metal and Thorin went with Brytta to pick out the ponies. Walda accompanied them, very much excited about the sudden turmoil in the usually peaceful and, for a child, often very boring Edoras.

While Brytta still mistrusted the Dwarves, Fréaláf seemed most supportive of their quest. Every evening, just before dinner, the Dwarves sat on the higher hills of Edoras just as the sun was setting and they smoked their pipes and around them gathered the children and some adults as well, Fréaláf amongst them whenever his health allowed him to, and they listened to their stories and songs. Thráin told of the wonders of Erebor and the magnificent beauty of those emerald halls and he told the story of Smaug. While Fundin and Gróin could smile and chuckle already, Thorin often occupied himself with whittling toys for the children, for his heart bled whenever he heard the tales of his homelands and he slowly began to doubt his father. Young and hot-headed as he was, he could not comprehend how anyone could joke about the dreadful things that had happened to them and a subtle dislike for Thráin began to grow within the young prince. He honoured his father but the more stories Thráin told, the more did Thorin wish he was more like Thrór. Wise and regal and serious.

On the night before their departure, Thráin sat awake for a long time. The Dwarves had set up camp in one of the many stables, not because Fréaláf hadn't offered them beds in a tavern but because Thráin did not wish to be disturbed by the many voices and tall figures that spent their lonely nights in said taverns. The presence of the horses had irritated the Dwarves in the first two nights but they soon had gotten used to the smell and the quiet snorting and actually found some comfort in the silent and warm company.

It was way past midnight already and a sole, slim candle illuminated one of the stalls. A sturdy, black pony with a white blaze curiously gazed at the Dwarf sitting in the straw, his back leaning against the wooden wall of the stable. Thráin went through various maps once more and scribbled notes in Khuzdul in a small, leather-bound book. He marked routes and stops on the maps and tried hard to figure out the safest way to the Lands of Rhûn, though he had never been to those parts of the world. Somewhere in the back of the stables, the snoring of Fundin and Gróin sounded and the black pony flattened its ears in a disapproving manner.

"I know. Nuisances, aren't they?"

The pony snorted and Thráin chuckled quietly.

"So you're getting acquainted with your pony already?" Thráin looked up when Thorin appeared by the stall. He seemed worn out and tired, yet he had found it hard to get any sleep in the past few days.

"We get along", Thráin answered and scooted a little when his son settled down by his side, curiously glimpsing at the maps and notes.

"You really mean to go through with this, don't you?"

"'Course I do. Not like we have any choice on this matter. Unless you believe that we can defeat thousands of Orcs with the little people we have."

"We could just let the matter rest and try to find a new home instead", Thorin muttered.

"Aye, we could", Thráin quietly smiled to himself, though his gaze seemed absent and thoughtful. "We could forever run away from everyone and let the world believe that we are truly small enough to be pushed around."

"Adad-"

"We have built magnificent homes, Thorin. For ages, we have built Halls that were unmatched by anything else, marvellous and enchanting. We built Durin's Halls in Gundabad and the Orcs came to claim them, so we left. We built the beautiful Halls of Khazad-dûm and the Orcs and Durin's Bane drove us out and we left again. We built magnificent Halls in the Grey Mountains and a cold-drake came and drove us out and we left once more. We built Erebor and- well, you know what happened."

Thorin's features grew bitter and he shifted a little. He remembered the day when Smaug had sacked Erebor too vividly and he slowly grew angry with his father for bringing it up again.

"We just let it happen", Thráin continued, his deep voice calm and unusually soft. "I don't mean to let anything happen to us anymore. I will not sit idly and watch the world do as it pleases with us. It is time that we fight back, Thorin. For our sake."

"It is folly, adad, and you know that."

"Then be it folly! I will rather be called a fool than a coward!"

Thorin flinched a little. He carefully glanced at his father and noticed the cunning, grey eyes glistening with determination and a grim courage that drove him into this mindless act.

"Our days on this earth are short. They might seem long to you now because you're still young but I have already reached the peak of my life and I am not willing to die as an exiled King that sat and did nothing while his people suffered. I know that you believe I am not fit to wear a crown-"

"Adad!"

"Shut your mouth when I'm speaking to you!"

Thorin felt caught and he suddenly regretted his doubt. He began to play with a piece of straw, watching his boots abashed.

"Don't hold me for an idiot, Thorin. I know my children and I know what worries you. Don't think I am not aware that you wished for your grandfather to still be here and deal with the matter in my stead. And so do I. Believe me, so do I. I wish dearly that he was still with us but he's not anymore. You're probably right. I am not fit to wear a crown. And I don't want to. I am however fit to defend my kin and I shall do that until the day I die. If this isn't good enough for you, then I am sorry to be such a disappointment to my son."

"You're not", Thorin mumbled, swallowing hard. "You never were. I just- I feel helpless. He always seemed so sure about everything and now that he's gone- I don't know what to do."

"Then how about we try to figure out what to do?" a small smile tugged at Thráin's lips, well hidden underneath the thick, slowly greying beard. "As a family. I will need your support for this."

When the sun rose above the mountains again, Dís woke from the first rays of light that tickled her nose. She pulled the blankets a little closer around her body and tried to fall asleep once again but low murmurs and faint voices kept her mind from wandering off again and she sat up and looked around. For the past days, the Dwarves had celebrated and feasted every night, honouring the wishes of the Lords of the Iron Hills. They had danced and played music and forgotten about their hardships for a while. Frerin had always been amongst them, drinking to his heart's content since no grown-up was around to scold him and he had listened to Grór's tales, mesmerized and soon keen on adventures and battles. Dís had watched the palaver silently and though she could not deny the feeling of relief when she saw her kin so carefree and cheerful, she wished for her father to return to establish some order in this mess again. Knowing Thráin though, she remembered as she got up and pulled a cloak around her shoulders, he'd be the first one to join the feast and drinking.

She wandered around the still sleeping camp until she reached the tall grass by the Running. There she stopped in her tracks for she heard faint voices, familiar and jovial and she curiously followed the sound.

Well hidden by the waist-deep grass, on a little slope by the river, lay Frerin, enjoying the first rays of warm sunlight on his face, smoking a pipe. By his side sat Náli, Grór's companion, a pint already in hands and Dís knew from the moment she spotted them, that they had not even slept during the night. She sighed heavily and turned on her heels without the boys even noticing her.

"Seriously though, it's one terrifying beast", Frerin muttered, Náli by his side listening attentively. They had shared stories of various adventures for the past hours, whereby Náli had a whole range of tales to tell while Frerin made quite a lot of trouble up to impress the other Dwarf. "Razor-sharp claws, pointy teeth and by Mahal, ferocious."

"Sounds like a nightmare", Náli remarked, taking a sip from his pint.

"It is! It truly is, you wouldn't believe how many sleepless nights I've already suffered through. Once you come face to face with such a hazard, you begin to appreciate every second alive for the rest of your days, I'm telling you."

"What hazard?" Dís had reappeared, a small basket dangling from her arm. Considerate and kind as she was, she had quickly grabbed some snacks to eat and returned. Now she curiously glimpsed down at her brother and his new companion.

"Dís! Beloved sis, we were just talking about you!" Frerin smirked up at her and earned himself a hefty kick against his shin. She glared at Náli.

"Now now my Lady, I am a mere victim of your brother's pranks as well", the blond Dwarf tried to talk himself out of it, showing a most charming smile. Though tough he might be, considering his rank in Grór's army, that kick looked like it had bloody hurt.

"Be glad you are our guest!" Dís blustered.

She dropped the basket between them and settled down next to her brother. As soon as the scent of pork and cheese wafted across the grass, Frerin forgot about the pain in his leg and curiously peeked into the basket, his face immediately lighting up when he spotted the many delicacies.

"You, my dear sister, are the best sister anyone could wish for!" he pressed a loving kiss on Dís' cheek and began to rummage around in the basket.

"Oh, so now I'm suddenly good enough again", Dís chuntered. "I dearly hope that you treat your sister better!" She shot another glance at Náli.

"I surely would if I had one", he smiled a little apologetic. "Though I cannot understand at all why anyone could not appreciate such a wonderful being as yourself."

"Well that's-" the girl blushed badly, completely thrown off her guard by this boldness. She stammered something incomprehensible and began to pluck some grass by her side, leaving Náli with a smirk and Frerin with his cheeks stuffed already.

The youngster curiously looked from his sister to Náli and back again. The following silence was nearly deafening and the young prince sat between a blushing Dís, allegedly very much interested in the grass by her boots and a delighted Náli, taking most interest in the content of his pint and he didn't quite know what to do. Something told him that he should probably have a go at Náli and tell him to keep his hands off his sister but he somehow liked the fella. He thus shrugged it off and took a bite from the smoked ham, still curiously eyeing the two.

Courting amongst Dwarves was a most curious matter and rarely happened, for there weren't many women around and of the few who lived scattered across Middle Earth, many did not feel like getting married at all. Dís, with her mere twenty years of age, felt very much overwhelmed by the sudden attention. Though Náli wasn't much older than Frerin, he seemed somewhat more mature. He had an unusually fair face and smart eyes and his voice sounded light and gentle and though the young lass would not admit to it just yet, the many glances and kind words she had received from him over the past days flattered and cajoled her. Though he was bold and unspoken, he never appeared rude but kept his distance and still Dís wasn't sure what to make of all this.

"You never told us how you climbed so high in ranks", she began after a while, casually nicking some of Frerin's smoked ham. "I imagine that was quite tough, considering that you are not much older than us."

"Oh, just- I don't know really", Náli mused, scratching his neck. "I suppose I was quite a useful fighter and I worked hard so that would be it."

Dís eyed him for a moment, unsure if he was honest or just unreasonably modest. Growing up with two brothers, she had learned her fair share about boys trying to impress others and while some, like Frerin, bragged about great deeds, others, like Thorin, portrayed them as a matter of course and refused to make a fuss about it. Náli seemed to be somewhere in between and Dís grew a little wary around the young warrior.

"He has slain Easterlings before", Frerin chipped in, his cheeks still stuffed with cheese and ham. "Quite a lot of them. Grór said that's what got him his position mainly."

"Is it?" Dís raised her eyebrows. "Not so modest after all then."

"Well, as a member of the Guard it is my duty to protect the City. Naturally", Náli tried to whitewash the matter but soon learned that Dís took none of it.

"Tell me, my Lord, have you ever slain a dragon?"

"A dragon?" Náli blinked irritated. "I'm afraid I never have, no. Nor do I desire to, to be honest."

"I see."

Both lads seemed confused as Dís got up from her spot, wiped her hands on her jerkin and then turned to leave.

"A warrior that is falsely modest and unable and unwilling to slay a dragon serves no purpose here then. I wish you gentlemen a fine day, lazing around in the sun while others work hard for their living."

With that, she stomped off.

The boys were left dumbfounded and very much taken by surprise. Something was definitely odd with women, they found. Though Náli had tried to be at his best behaviour, something that Iron Hills Dwarves generally lacked, his charms seemingly had not worked too well and he exchanged a confused glance with Frerin, who had forgotten to swallow his food for a moment.

"Was it something I said?"

"I have no idea", Frerin gave him a gentle pat on the back. "She's like that. Just a little erm- difficult sometimes. She'll come around again, just wait."

"Guess you were right after all. She is quite ferocious."

"Told you."

Náli sighed and looked after Dís' disappearing frame. It wasn't as much as love at first sight but the young Dwarf had to admit to himself that he found her most attractive and even though he had just gotten the mitten in a most cruel manner, he couldn't help but fall for her a little more. One thing was for sure. Náli would not give up so easily for even though the Dwarves of the Iron Hills were not the most charming of their kind, they were surely persistent.


End file.
